Full Circle to Begin Again: Sara's Story
by plkphoto
Summary: A reflective journey through the past brings two people closer than ever. This is an Extended Metaphor Retrospective piece written for the prompt Whirlpool in the GeekFiction Elemental Ficathon. GSR. Everything through 8x07 Goodbye and Good Luck.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** For my two Elemental Ficathon Prompts at Geekfiction on LiveJournal, I wrote a pair of companion stories, the first (whirlpool) from Sara's POV and the second (candle) from Grissom's (still in my editing room, but coming soon). Either story can stand alone.

Thanks go to **ddangerlove** and the friendly people at the **GF PowerHours** for many helpful suggestions, and to my awesome betas **smacky30** and **chibs87** for helping make this so much better. THANK YOU!

* * *

**Full Circle to Begin Again: Take I**

**A Life of Water: Sara's Story**

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

_Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever._

- Herman Melville, _Moby Dick_

* * *

Sara remembered that she had once loved the water.

It was not as if she now hated the water, or was afraid of it, she was just missing the surging joy she had once felt welling up inside her as she watched the waves on the shore, the rain cascading from the roof, or even the simple swirling of a drain.

She felt it was particularly ironic that this thought should float to the surface while she was using water as a medium to balance her mind and maintain her newfound peace. She had only recently returned to Las Vegas, to Grissom, and to his luxurious Jacuzzi whirlpool bathtub. Not wanting to fall back into the swirling morass of pain and numbness that had prompted her abrupt departure from Las Vegas, Sara used the massaging powers of flowing water to help her regroup when she felt she was being overwhelmed.

The sunken, two-person, high-powered bath was a testament to Grissom's choice in furnishing. The man had very simple tastes, but in matters of indulgence he went all out. Though he had long lived alone, he liked to have a comfortable space for relaxing. In addition to the two person whirlpool tub, he owned a king-sized bed and a large flat screen television. His stereo system was also top of the line, with speakers wired throughout the house so the sounds of music could be piped into any room. She had learned that the short cable connecting the amplifier to the CD player cost more than her entire sound system, and apparently reduced distortion and noise.

Yes, Gil Grissom loved comfort, and she had often found herself feeling extremely grateful for this, especially on days like today when she felt the need to unwind.

The warm, therapeutic bath was only a small part of her ritual. Her most recent psychiatrist, one wholly unconnected to the police department, had suggested she find an activity that engaged and relaxed all of her senses while allowing her mind to float freely. By distracting her senses, she would be relinquishing control of her thoughts and could bring her subconscious and conscious mind into harmony again. Her psychiatrist felt that her troubles arose from battles between her subconscious and her rational control. Since the relaxation technique they had developed together seemed to work, Sara found no need to question it.

When she got that sinking feeling, her past reaching up to tow her under again, she would very carefully set up the master bath for an hour of sensual relaxation. Some days, she wanted space and solitude, and created a peaceful bubble to keep the outside world at bay as she floated. Some days, like today, she found herself with excess energy to burn, an eating desire to do more, though she knew she had done all she could and the rest was up to the court system. Rather than remaining at work for extended shifts doing menial tasks until she was exhausted, she brought herself home to relax, leaving a silent invitation for Gil to join her when he arrived.

The tub was filled with water as hot as she could stand, the internal heaters maintaining the temperature as the jets circulated the fluid. Rippling currents surrounded her, buoying her body and her spirit. The heat and pressure of the water burrowed deep into her muscles, massaging away aches of which she had been unaware. A rolled towel supporting her neck allowed her to completely immerse herself in comfort as her mind to floated unanchored.

She sipped a glass of rich Merlot, its soft bouquet filling her taste buds. The flavor was complimented by a bar of Lindt dark chocolate, and she savored its rich essence, only a hint of sugar to dispel the bitterness of the cocoa. The combination of alcohol and chocolate triggered a chemical relaxation of her mind and body.

Today, the candles lining the shelf above the sink were lavender-scented, the rich musk calming. Another series of candles, these a more mellow vanilla, surrounded the far edge of the tub, the two fragrances blending gently before wafting over to her. The wavering light they emitted filled the room; the shade on the window drawn to block the unnatural glow of the city. With her eyes closed, the light seemed to dance across her lids, painting pictures in the shifting red seas of her mind.

Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" played softly throughout the house. The combination of quick beats interspersed with slow movements drew the pace of her thoughts along with the music, rushing through vast periods of time then slowing down to relive the details of a single moment. Images of the day merged together, then faded against the power of the musical imagery to be replaced with images of the past.

And Sara remembered that she had once loved the water. As she felt the gently swirling jets erode away her tension, she tried to remember when her passion had ebbed.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *


	2. Eddies

**Eddies**

* * *

_Spring has come, yet snow still clings in the crevices of the high peaks, lingers in the deep shade of the forests. Warm winds and an early rain hasten the snowmelt, sending torrents of water cascading down the sides of the mountains, eschewing the established cuts of small streams, pouring over the land, gathering force, collecting debris. As the floodwaters combine in gullies, the violent deluge tears through the land, leaving behind a deep scar. The flow eddies around deeply rooted trees and large boulders, creating fleeting harbors for a floating passenger, but eventually this too is swept brutally away._

* * *

Though it began as a mere trickle during Sara's early youth the anger flowing through the Sidle household swelled slowly but inexorably as the years passed. Each new incident further eroded any happy memories of her earlier childhood, until she was no longer sure that the events in her mind had ever existed outside her imagination or if, perhaps, they had been suggested to her by the books she read. Yet some memories remained firmly rooted despite the inundation of pain.

One such memory was her first real trip to the ocean. When they learned that she had grown up in Tamales Bay, most people assumed that she also grew up with the ocean. While it was true that the Pacific was almost a neighbor the Sidles had always avoided their neighbors, even before there was a need to hide the bruises and the bandages. The beach closest to their house was too crowded for her parents' liking, so Sara saw the ocean only in passing. But one year, on Sara's fifth birthday, her father decided to take them to a sandy spit surrounded by rocky outcrops on one side and lush marshes on the other, and just big enough to make a secluded beach for the small family.

Whether she loved the water because of the beauty of that day or she loved that day because of the beauty of the water she had never been sure, but the excursion remained the source of her most vivid childhood memories. There was the salty tang of the sea air, the offshore breeze blowing away the less pleasant smells of the exposed tidal zone, at least until she and her father climbed up on the rocks to explore the alien landscapes of strange creatures that filled the rapidly drying pools. There was the thrill of the incoming waves as they crashed into the rocks, spraying them with a fine mist as the tide crept ever closer, before slowly gurgling back into the sea. And there was the feel of her father's hand secure in hers, steadying her as the rocks grew slippery underfoot.

There was the sensation of water swirling around her bare toes, eroding the sand from beneath her feet, as she and her mother dabbled in the ripples lapping onto the shore, carefully sculpting castles in which beautiful mermaids could dwell, only to have them disappear beneath the waves. There was the chill of the water as they waded deeper, the cold soon forgotten in the powerful surge of the ocean swells trying to knock her down, foaming breakers filling her mouth with salt. And there was the feel of her mother's hand secure in hers, keeping her from being swept to sea.

And finally, there was drifting off to sleep on a beach towel spread over the warm sand, as a gentle breeze ruffled her hair, and the ocean whispered a rhythmic hush, hush, hush... Her mother's gentle hand brushing aside her hair, her father's strong arms lifting her into the air.

Maybe these memories remained embedded in her mind because she continually brought them to the surface to provide comfort as their lives became more turbulent; the calms shorter and further between, roaring violence becoming the norm. When her parents' hands would rise in anger she would remember the security of their grasp anchoring her against the incoming tide. Through the bellowing and the crashing, she would submerge herself in her blankets and recall the sense of being lulled to sleep by the waves, the ocean's song in her ears.

The summer before her father died, she spent the days doing small errands for her neighbors, building up enough cash to pay for an intensive swimming course. Her parents were used to her absence during the day, and swimming provided a safe harbor, for a while. These regular trips to the beach also intensified her love of the ocean, the gentle swish of swells lapping on the shore, the violent crash of waves breaking against the rocks, the distant murmur of surf breaking beyond the sandbar.

Through the violent storm surrounding her father's death, through the years spent drifting from anonymous home to anonymous home, joining school after school, water remained her solace, whether it was a swim at the beach, the sound of rain pattering on the trees, or the simple pleasure of a quiet bath.

When she was unable to escape the constraints of a new house, or the undertow of her memories, she would immerse herself in her studies and her books, trying to drown the loneliness and isolation imposed on her by the foster system. She always loved reading mysteries, playing with numbers, and cracking codes. Subjects that stumped most of her classmates enticed Sara, such as working step by step through a geometric proof, calculating the rate at which a corn silo would fill, or determining how two chemicals would interact in solution. She breezed through her college entrance exams, easily gaining acceptance to Harvard, determined to start afresh.

In Boston, she discovered an entirely different side to the sea.

She had resolved not to let her past haunt her, to leave behind the quiet foster child always lurking in corners, trying to go unnoticed. She became outwardly gregarious, spent time laughing with classmates, and dipped her toe into the dating pool, though it often seemed a struggle against her very nature. Even with the men she dated, she allowed no close ties to form, keeping her inner depths hidden beneath a calm surface.

In between study sessions and essay writing, when she felt the overwhelming need to be alone, she would take a trip down to the harbor and pass the time walking along the docks. It was nothing like the beach refuges of her youth.

First, there was the pervasive odor of fishing vessels and fish markets, which almost overwhelmed the salty tang she had learned to associate with the ocean. The smell could have been a deterrent, but soon she learned to ignore it. In the humid summer, the offshore breezes were not crisp and cooling but more gentle than those of her youth. In the bitter winter, the winds rushed the other way carrying the cold chill of the land far out to sea.

The sounds were different, too. Rather than the crashing surf on the rocks or the gentler foaming of waves lapping against the shore, the protected harbor was awash with the sounds of boats creaking as they rocked against their moorings, of metal ties clanking against the mastheads, and of fishermen calling to deckhands as they offloaded their catch.

She loved to visit the floating docks as the tide was flowing in, watching as they slowly drifted upward keeping pace with the rising boats. With the tide, jellyfish would often come, white globes drifting below her, their lives' journeys dictated by the whims of the ocean currents.

Sometimes she would visit the aquarium, spending hours watching the fish, sharks, and sea turtles gliding almost effortlessly around the large central tank. She would feel the calming pull of their lives, and she envied the divers who shared their world, if only for a little while.

At school, she immersed herself in the sciences, relishing the analytical aspect of physics and chemistry, the practical application of her math skills. Yet she also enjoyed the required arts classes, temporarily drowning her cares in Thoreau, Wordsworth, and Frost; Mozart, Bach, and Vivaldi; Monet, Picasso, and Dali.

Though she generally avoided large social gatherings, when her favorite lab instructor asked her to join him in a spring break trip down to Miami her senior year she decided to make the most of it. She was planning to attend the excellent physics program at Berkley for graduate school, and this would be her last chance to see the southern beaches she had heard so much about. She should have known, from the moment he invited her to join the mile high club, what the trip would actually be like.

Soon after they dropped off their luggage at the cheapest hotel to be found within walking distance of South Beach, she found herself swept along in a tide of young people and a rash of barely legal activities. The writhing masses of the crowds obscured the shimmering white sand. The screaming of half-naked girls masked the gentle sounds of the waves on the shore. Beer cans floating on the water detracted from the glowing blue of the ocean depths, and the smells of spoiling beer and acrid smoke overpowered the light salty tang of the breeze.

For most of the students, the days and nights were spent drinking themselves into oblivion or sleeping off the effects of their latest party. As she was towed along in their wake, Sara felt herself yearning for the quiet peacefulness that settled over the campus during the holidays.

But what she really remembered about her trip to Miami were some of her final hours there. The afternoon before they were scheduled to leave, an unexpected storm suddenly blew out of the gulf, passing over Miami and heading for the open ocean. As the clouds massed overhead and lightning forked down from the sky, the lifeguards, assisted by the threat of an impending deluge, began breaking up parties, sending people rushing away from the exposed beach. She was invited to join everyone at a club in town, but she lingered behind, claiming she wished to sleep before the flight in the morning.

As the last of the partygoers staggered away, she sought refuge in one of the small lifeguard shacks, begging the duty guard to allow her access. From there she watched nature's fury unfold, feeling the stresses of the past week draining away in its wake.

A roaring wind caused the building to shudder slightly, as empty beer cans blew past, rolling across the sandy expanse of the beach. Through the slightly open windows, the earthy smell of rain chased away the stale smells of the past week, reviving her. The wind met the tide creeping up the shore and drove the incoming waves back against themselves in a shower of foaming white spray. The crashing of the surf was a low rumble beneath the rattle of the windows and the rush of the wind. An occasional crack of thunder punctuated the storm's severity.

The wind was followed by a sheeting rain that pounded down on the roof of the shack, driven forward by the gale. The sound of the rain drowned out all other sounds, filling the room with rhythmic drumming. Water cascaded down the beach, digging runnels in the sand until it reached the crashing waves and was swallowed by the sea. Water cascaded from the roof, soon hiding the ocean behind a translucent sheet.

After a time, the strong winds blew out, and the rain slowed to a calm but steady trickle. As darkness descended, she could still see the occasional burst of lightning far out to sea where the main body of the storm continued to rage. And still the heavens continued to weep, the gentle rains cleansing the shore. In the relative calm, Sara left the shelter of the shack to walk through the warm shower, feeling the water sluicing away her remaining tension.

Eventually, the rain subsided and the clouds began to break apart, revealing the full moon shining brightly overhead. A light breeze blew in from the ocean, quickly drying her clothes, and pressing the waves up onto the shore in gentle curls. The occasional whitecap glowed in the light of the moon, and the sand shimmered beneath her feet. The serenity, so unlike the constant parties of the past week, seeped into her.

Sara spent that night on the beach, alternately strolling and watching the water. The partiers did not return, choosing to remain in the city or collapsing in their hotel rooms in drunken stupors. As the moon dropped toward the west and the sky along the horizon began to glow a light green, a few lone people and several couples strolled down to the beach, likely locals enjoying the respite from the constant parties of spring break season. Though they nodded as they passed, no one interrupted her solitary reverie.

Sara watched the sun slowly rise above the ocean, the sky turning pink then orange, reflecting off the water, and shimmering in her vision. As the sun rose, the ocean slowly began to glow a light aquamarine, its depths hidden under the cloud of silt and sand stirred up by the storm. The fresh smell of the breeze and the lapping of the waves on the shore brought peace surging through her.

As her companion slumbered beside her on the plane, she reflected that the tranquility she had acquired during the night may have been worth the turbulence of the trip.

When she arrived back in Boston, she found an acceptance letter to Berkeley awaiting her. Now she anticipated her return to the shores of California to begin anew, without the underlying fear of her memories. She sailed through the remaining months of college, occasionally returning to the harbor as before, but no longer trying to change her social inclination.

At Berkeley, she enjoyed academic discussions with her classmates, but rarely joined them socially; preferring to spend her time reading by the ocean when she was able to pull herself from the lab. She dove into her studies and her experiments, devouring the new material with gusto. The one subject she avoided was fluid dynamics, feeling that detailed knowledge of the physics of water would destroy her love for it.

The early months of her master's classes flowed by quickly, and she enjoyed the puzzles, but felt something was missing. Her work lacked true meaning. Then the local police department came to her lab for a consultation, and her advisor recommended that she take the case. This brief dip into the world of forensics changed her course forever, and she soon left Berkeley to take a position at the crime lab in San Francisco.

Little did she know where this new tributary would lead.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Whirlpool

**Whirlpool**

* * *

_In time, the floodwaters reach the plains, gathering together to form a large river meandering slowly across the land. Bubbling brooks cascading down from above occasionally swell the current with the purity of the mountain springs, refreshing the languid flow. Debris and sediment slowly filter out, settling in the pools and backwaters. Yet remnants remain suspended in the flow, submerged beneath the smooth surface, reminders of its past course, occasionally surfacing through the churning rapids and in the whirlpools beneath the falls. These swirling waters catch the unwary; refuge in the backwaters brief before being lost again to the vortex._

* * *

Sara dove into her forensic training, soaking up the new information with overflowing enthusiasm. While she was surrounded by the dark depths of humanity, she was often able to bring peace and resolution to the families affected. She would plunge into each new case, immersing herself in the evidence until she extracted the truth. Some cases would dredge up memories of the past, but she always managed to push them back beneath the surface by spending several hours relaxing by the ocean shore.

Then one year, a chance meeting at a forensic conference hosted by the San Francisco crime lab altered her course yet again. She attended a seminar given by a young but well-known forensic scientist and admired the way his enthusiasm bubbled out of him as he leaped from idea to idea. He seemed to sparkle, his energy pure and clear. She wanted nothing more than for her life to merge with his, to allow his purity to cleanse her of the specters of her past experiences with men.

Though unable to summon up the courage to invite him out for dinner after the seminar, she found herself drawn to him again when the conference hosted a barbeque the following afternoon at the newly opened Baker Beach. They chatted and joked over an early dinner, posed for a souvenir photograph in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, then wandered away from the large group of conference goers to explore the rocky shores and overgrown dunes surrounding the narrow stretch of sand.

They began with talk of forensics, until she asked about some of the literary references in his presentation. Then they spoke of books and art as they strolled along the paths running across the high bluffs. The breeze off the ocean crossed over the exposed rocky shore and through the blooming fields, gathering a mixed bouquet of scents before passing gently over them. The crashing surf breaking against the shore provided an undertone to their conversation. And occasionally they would fall into silence, simply enjoying the beauty around them.

As they descended from the bluffs to explore the rocky tidal pools, he would occasionally take her hand in a steadying grasp as the rocks grew slippery underfoot.

He held her spellbound as he detailed the lives of the creatures they saw, occasionally pulling one from its watery home to place it in her trusting hand. The tiny islands of water among the rocks teamed with life, and she found herself amazed by the vastness of his knowledge, by the care with which he handled the delicate creatures, and by the unbridled enthusiasm that constantly flowed from him.

They sat on the rocks near the edge of the sea and allowed the waves pushed by the incoming tide to crash over them, laughing freely as they experienced a small portion of the violence in the lives of the tidal creatures. Finally, drenched, they returned to the sandy beach, where they allowed the roaring bonfire to dry their clothes. Then they sat in the sand to watch the sun set behind the golden bridge, its orange light shimmering across the harbor and creeping up the shore.

All too soon it was time to leave, but they promised to keep in touch. Unbelievably, he kept this promise and they spent the next two years chatting by phone or emailing about some of their odder cases. Then one autumn he called with a desperate request for help, and despite the distance from her beloved ocean she was only too willing to hoist anchor and join his team.

Though it did not happen all at once, or all for one reason, it was there in Las Vegas that her love of water began to run dry. Soon she found herself with no refuge from the memories of her past.

It was not just that there was no longer an ocean for her to visit. There were other places she could go, other ways of spending her time that could have brought her mind back into harmony. No, her slow descent into depression was tied to her ebbing love for water, but it was not caused by a lack of water.

When she first arrived in Vegas she was brimming with enthusiasm, eager to prove herself to everyone in her new team but most of all to him. She poured her heart into every new case, draining her reserves, but she was still able to rebound with time. She drew new energy through her interactions with him. His mind roused hers, and they melded into a comfortable working relationship with an undercurrent of something deeper.

When she first arrived she spent some time exploring her new world, enjoying some of the sights, laughing at the gaudiness of others. There were two places to which she often returned after particularly stressful cases, the Bellagio fountain and the Mandalay Bay aquarium. Though she always went alone, she often wondered how the experience would be enhanced if he were there.

If the temperature was moderate and the crowds small she would stand outside by the fountain, watching the sparkling arcs of water cutting through the air, allowing the rhythmic changing of the pattern to hypnotize her. Occasional sprays of mist would drift over her, chilling her skin slightly as it evaporated. She would stare at the fountain until the world drifted away behind her and it was as if she were living within the swirling water. In the peace of the fountain, she would regain her balance, and set forth again with renewed determination.

If it weather did not allow her to comfortably remain outside for extended times, or if there was a particularly large group of tourists at the fountain, she would explore the aquarium at Mandalay Bay. When she had energy to burn, she would walk for hours through the many tunnels and around the large tanks, watching the colorful fish dart in and out of the rocks searching for food. When she was completely exhausted by her days work, she would grab a drink and a seat near the large shark tank, watching the predators swimming almost effortlessly through the water. Their constant gliding movements lulled her mind, allowing her a moment of rest.

As time went by, however, she found herself returning to these retreats less and less often. Instead she began throwing herself into new cases, drawing in on herself more and more. Perhaps it was the constant presence of gawking tourists, or the loud ringing of slot machines in the background, but as time went by the early fascination she felt receded until the calming influence was lost.

Her relationship with Grissom also began to abate as he became bogged down in the burdens of leadership. She sought to renew his interest through increased dedication to her work, constantly trying to impress him and taking their disagreements to heart. She thought of leaving but she could not escape his pull. Deep down she knew she would never find another man to compare to him, even as a friend. And so she remained.

As he seemed unwilling to expand their relationship outside of the working environment she reluctantly tried to find another way to reduce her loneliness. She found a friend in a man who could understand the job but not remind her constantly of it. She eventually allowed herself to think of him as more than just a friend.

Hank seemed interested in her enjoyment and took her places she never would have explored on her own, the local vineyards and the hills of the surrounding desert. Sometimes, they would drive away from the city and its blinding lights to gaze at the stars. On one such trip, after an especially trying case, instead of a sky full of stars they came across an unexpected thunderstorm. He suggested they head back into town, but she asked that they stay to watch the storm unfold, and so they sat in his truck and watched as nature unleashed her fury.

Her love of rain had been dampened slightly through the loss of valuable evidence at rain washed crime scenes. When not on the job, however, she still found pleasure in the sounds and smells associated with the monsoonal thunderstorms that regularly burst on summer afternoons.

Rain in the desert city was very different from what she remembered of the coastal rains. Storms were patchy; often a torrential downpour in one neighborhood would only sprinkle a little in the surrounding areas, perhaps even leaving them dry and untouched. But up in the hills as they were that night, they were inside the storm.

The wind roared around the car, rain drummed on the roof, and thunder cracked and rumbled, making conversation impossible, for which Sara was grateful. They sat silently as the world exploded around them, watching as the rain sheeted down the windows, the trees whipped against the flickering night sky, and the occasional streak of lightning forked down from the sky.

As the rain slowed to a drizzle then stopped all together, they finally began to stir. He started the car, and she lowered her window. She drank in the freshly washed smell of the air, and listened to the quiet drips of rain falling from the trees. They drove quietly back to the city, and no words were spoken until they reached her apartment. The awe of the evening still fresh in her mind, she invited him inside.

Their relationship also ended in the rain. As she stood under an umbrella trying to determine sun angles, half of her mind was swirling in confusion as she mulled over the significance of his dinner companion. Even before seeing confirmation in a photograph, she knew it was over. And though she was not conscious of the connection, she never again spent time simply appreciating the rain.

As she recovered her equilibrium, she realized that Hank was a poor substitute for the man with whom she truly wished to enjoy life, and she determined to persuade him into a more personal relationship. Unaware of his own deepening problems and the abysmal timing of her question, she was crushed by his abrupt and repeated rejection. Her spirits plummeted in a swirling press of past memories and she wondered why she was not good enough for him.

She struggled to maintain her footing as a series of cases further eroded her defenses, highlighting her inadequacy to her mind. Her downward spiral began when a young girl's life was ended because Sara could not provide her with the strength needed to identify her attacker. Sara strove to overcome this resurgence of her past, but was hindered as a series of disagreements arose with Grissom, and she took his professional decisions personally. She decided to apply for the promotion, feeling that he would at least recognize her dedication and the quality of her work, but found herself failing even in this.

As gloom descended, she could no longer find pleasure in the small things. A shower at home was once a time to reflect and come to terms with the important events of the day. She would allow the warm water to wash away both the physical and emotional grime of the day, sluicing it down the drain. The rhythmic sound of water falling on and around her blocked out the garish sounds of the city, the pounding force of the high pressure stream massaged the tension from her shoulders and neck, and the gentle fruity smell of her shampoo would refresh her.

Now, she no longer distinguished between the impersonal showers at the lab and the comfort of her own home. All too often, her showers were marred with the sour tang of lemon, the sting of the acid as it found unknown yet innumerable small cuts and cracks in her skin. While the scent had once seemed fresh and clean, the slight pain invigorating, now it was just a reminder of the death she faced every day.

Then a young nurse who bore a remarkable resemblance to Sara was found murdered in her shower, the room decorated for a soothing night of romance. Though Sara never saw the scene, she heard the talk, saw the photos, and wondered about the girl's loss of innocence.

She watched Grissom's descent into his own confused emotions. In his pain and exhaustion, she heard him confess the truth that she had convinced herself he did not feel. And for a moment, she saw through her pain to his. Afterward, though they still did not often work together, when they did there were again moments of shared enlightenment and intellectual banter.

While she greedily soaked up each of these moments, they were not enough to revive her joy, her love of life, her belief in what she was doing. He could not offer her what she most needed, and she was caught in the pain of loneliness each night as she left for home. And while she never drank herself into a stupor, the simple joy of a cleansing shower was replaced by the drugging power of an after work drink or two or three.

Then, it all came pouring in at once. Over the course of two weeks, she found that she was not recommended for the promotion, another young woman died when they failed to hold her attacker, and finally the flashing lights in her rearview mirror warned her that she could not continue on this course.

Suddenly, his hand was warm and firm in hers, and through her shame, she could feel him pulling her free from the depths of her pain, and he took her home. From his quiet support that night, she regained belief in her ability to find the strength to begin again.

In the shower after he left, she rediscovered the cleansing power of water. First, a gentle spray and aromatic soaps washed the day's reminders from her skin and hair. Then, a pounding stream massaged the tension from her muscles and joints. Finally, a long soak in an oil laden bath lulled the tumult of her mind. And then she slept.

After an enforced but relaxing vacation and several appointments with a professional councilor, she felt ready to face work again, though she was less certain of her ability to face him again. It was a constant struggle, but she was determined to rise above her past.

Each time a case threatened to pull her back under, she would repeat the cleansing ritual of gentle spray, massaging stream, and relaxing soak. Though she emerged refreshed for a time, events seemed determined to drown her again. Swinging couples whose lives were broken in jealousy brought to mind the constant fighting that defined her youth; a young girl exploited all her life and young brothers left in neglect and starvation brought back memories of undeserving foster homes; and the division of the team seemed like the breaking of her family.

As painful recollections surfaced again and again, she struggled to overcome them, but each recurrence pulled her back closer to the abyss. Until a final case and the wrong company snapped her remaining anchor against the storm raging within her.

She was not surprised when he arrived at her door, but she was still hesitant to allow him access to the full depths of her past. When he refused to be deterred by her usual defenses, she begged him to let it pass, but he persisted and eventually she allowed him a glimpse. As she told him of her history, she finally allowed it to engulf her completely, and she surrendered to the flood.

And this time as he took her hand, she clung to the lifeline through the turbulence of her memories and did not let go.

* * *

**TBC**


	4. Maelstrom

**Maelstrom**

* * *

_Eventually the river meets the sea in a confluence of flowing water and surging tides. As the sea flows in around the exiting river, large whirlpools form temporarily along the banks, disappearing when tide and river flow together in harmony. Sheltering seawalls extending out from the land provide safe harbors from the volatility of the sea. Yet, a violent flood, powerful storm, or distant earthquake can destroy this protective dike. The sea rushing into the breach creates a destructive maelstrom which devours everything in its course until the violence subsides again to the calmer ebb and flow of regulated tides._

* * *

Something shifted that day in her apartment. It was not just a shift in her relationship with him, but an internal shift deep within herself. Though the change was not instantaneous, she felt a sense of liberation, a separation from her past that was not complete, but freeing.

She did not know what he had done to retain her job, but she returned to work determined to live up to his belief in her. Though nothing changed in their interactions, and he had not said much after her floodgates had burst, she knew now that he cared about her as more than just another member of his team. Even if he could only be her friend, his unwavering support buoyed her up when she was sinking, and she knew that in her quest to overcome her past she could never disappoint him, even as she was afraid of disappointing herself.

She had told of her past to countless therapists over the years, but she had never before shared it openly with a friend. That he knew of her horrors somehow made them bearable, and she found her strength flooding back into her as each day passed.

Though she enjoyed her new role as Greg's mentor, she relished the cases she spent with Grissom, as witty banter and shared looks slowly returned to their daily routine. When she had to confront her past embarrassment with Ecklie, she managed to do so with composure, supported by Grissom's belief that the time was right. As their trap snapped closed around a monster, she realized again why she had chosen this course.

Through it all, she saw him change as well, becoming more open with his praise, showing his compassion when Greg encountered his first living victim, and quietly reviving their easy friendship. His early enthusiasm, which had so captured her attention in a seminar long ago, slowly returned.

Then a case in a mental hospital and an attack by damaged man threatened to pull her under again. As she stood clinging to the rough metal grate, she watched the rain sheeting down the glass, and she felt the adrenaline slowly receding from her system. She saw his reflection approaching cautiously, and the memory of his tortured gaze and the shared knowledge of her secrets allowed her to face him. With his support, she found the strength to complete the investigation.

That evening she returned to her cleansing ritual. Under the gentle rain of the shower, she scoured her body with a relaxing soap of coconut milk to remove the vestiges of hospital scent that had lingered long after her quick shower at the lab. As she increased the pressure of the spray, she allowed the pounding force to drive the tension from her body. Then she settled into a bath filled with calming lavender oil in an attempt to cleanse her mind of the churning memories.

When the water began to cool, she still felt that the day was somehow unfinished. Her thoughts had calmed considerably, but she felt unsettled, and not ready to sleep. Night had fallen while she bathed, but the interview had spilled into a triple shift and she was not expected at work. Rather than forcing herself to lie in bed, she lit some vanilla-scented candles scattered around her living area and dimmed all the lights, then sat by the window with a mug of steaming chamomile tea and watched the storm outside.

The neon lights of the distant Strip reflected off the low lying clouds in a shifting pattern of colors, occasionally washed from the sky by an illuminating flash of lightning. The rumbling thunder rattled the windows and occasional shifts in the wind drove the rain in cascading sheets down the glass, blurring the outside lights into sparkling mosaics. And she allowed the multicolored lightshow to lull her into a trance.

A soft knock on the door startled her, but she was not entirely surprised to see him standing in the hall, his hair and jacket both dripping steadily onto the floor. His eyes scanned over her comfortable flannel pajamas then rested on her neck, but he said nothing. When he finally met her gaze, she nodded him into the apartment, then retreated to the closet to grab a towel. As he dried himself, she started another pot of water, fixing them each a calming nighttime tea, a blend of mint, chamomile, and rosehips. She handed him his mug then led the way over to the window, pulling a second chair up next to hers.

In silence, they watched the sheeting rain, hands clasped around their mugs for warmth. After a time, she looked up to see him watching her. As her eyes met his, he extended his hand and reached for hers, taking it in a warm clasp. Then he smiled and turned back to the window. Together, they let the storm wash away the clinging fear of the day.

He left just as dawn was tinting the sky a lighter blue between the breaking clouds, the city rinsed clean in the night. His hand lingered in hers a moment longer than she expected, before he pulled slowly away and departed as silently as he had come.

She slept deeply that morning, her dreams unremembered when she woke, but with the faint feeling of his hand still warm in hers. Though the timing was not yet right to move further, she could sense that it soon would be. Again, something had shifted, but it was too new, too fragile to be defined. Now, however, she was content to wait patiently for the next step. She had faced and reconciled with her past, and she was ready to move into the future, but she would allow him to set the pace.

Less than a month later, as they waited in the hard plastic chairs of the hospital for a chance to see living proof that they had found Nick in time, she took a chance and moved to comfort him in his self-imposed isolation. She handed him a steaming cup of mint tea and took his hand in a light clasp, and he did not pull away.

That evening, after the hospital and the paperwork, she found him again at her door. And this time before he left he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, in a silent promise of things to come.

They built their relationship gradually, spending time together outside of work, talking about the past and about books and about life. Nick recovered and the team was brought back together again, and Sara began to feel complete for the first time in her life. The occasional rough patch was soon overcome as two private people learned to share their lives. As their personal relationship deepened, it spilled over into their working environment, easing the tension that had plagued the last few years.

Generally, he came to her apartment, where they could lounge in cozy comfort as they talked, watched a movie, or shared a meal. Gradually they became closer, both emotionally and physically, and she felt no need to rush, soaking up each moment as it came.

Occasionally, they would spend time together outside of the city. One of her favorite memories of these early days in their relationship was a trip they took, on a rare mutual night off, to a quiet cove on Lake Mead. They drove across the Hoover Dam and almost to Arizona before following a small access road to a site away from the more easily accessible tourist parks and boat ramps. It was the only time she had been to the lake without hearing or seeing a single motorized boat, though a young couple in a canoe had paddled past.

Grissom took a small gazebo tent and erected a shady shelter above a portable table and two camp chairs, then he produced a feast of cold salads, slices of fresh watermelon, and a pitcher of iced tea with a sprig of mint and a slice of lemon.

They enjoyed the gentle breeze and the quiet lapping of waves against the hard stone of the shore, and watched the ants as they stole fallen bits of their lunch. She tried to stage a friendly competition to see who could spit the watermelon seeds the greatest distance or with the greatest accuracy, but he declined, claiming he would never win against a physics major. They walked along the shore as the sun set, its golden sheen cast over the water, and the moon rose, its white path shimmering as the sunset faded.

They watched the bats appear, capturing their breakfast from the hoard of insects that swarmed above the water. They listened to the distant yips of a coyote pack declaring its territory and the answering howls of their neighbors. They breathed in the refreshing fragrance of night blooming flowers and watched the fluttering moths feeding through their long tubular mouths. And through his accompanying stories, the world again came alive for her.

On the drive back, long after any tourists remained, they stopped and walked out onto the Hoover Dam to listen to the rushing water pouring from the reservoir, watching the river far below glinting in the moonlight. When she shivered, he wrapped his arms and jacket around her from behind, and she stood surrounded by his scent and warmth, allowing the comfortable peace to soak deeply. In his safe harbor, Sara knew that she had found her home.

They were not often able to escape the city, but this and other shared moments in their first year together provided her with a sense of stability she had never before felt. Small disagreements never lasted long. They had already been through the major misunderstandings before entering into an intimate relationship.

Despite the ease of their time together, she felt nervous the first time she visited his townhouse uninvited. Though she had not been directly involved in the majority of the case, Sara had heard how Grissom had caught Heather beating the man who had tortured her daughter. Sara thought he could use a friend though she knew he would never ask. And though he looked surprised to see her there, there was no hesitancy as he ushered her in, and she was shocked by the vehemence of his hug. She never worried about approaching him again and their relationship continued to deepen.

When Brass was shot several months later, they were able to talk openly about mortality, and she wondered whether his comments were entirely about Brass and their recent cases, or whether they were inspired by the illness growing inside his mother. Though he did not talk directly about it, she knew that his upcoming trip was likely to be his chance to say goodbye. With a smile and a few words, she let him know that she would be there for him.

She could hear the surf crashing in the background when he called from California, and she knew that his mother was gone. He returned a few days later, looking exhausted and holding the leash of a large boxer. And their small family swelled by one.

With the addition of Hank, they began spending more time at his townhouse, and slowly, inexorably her things began to accumulate there. At first they were only personal items, but soon some of her furniture followed, filling his large empty spaces with some of the cozy comfort of her apartment.

She was never sure if the death of his mother contributed to his slow downward slide, but after a series of tough cases she could sense him drifting away from her. He seemed to cheer slightly in her presence, but he began to lose his enthusiasm for the challenge, and she watched helplessly as he was pulled deeper into the abyss.

She knew he had been thinking of going east for a short sabbatical, and any resistance he had against leaving disappeared when Ernie Dell sent his suicide note as a live video stream. She wanted to be supportive, but because of his recent lack of communication, she could not help but wonder if he was running from her as well. The three short words he left with her soothed somewhat, and the glint in his eye and the smile on his face when he returned made her feel the wait had been well worth the reward.

When he finally made it home following the aftermath of Keppler's death, they took a soothing bath together, comfortably discussing the cases he had missed, the absurdity of reverse forensics, and the bitter cold of a northeastern winter. As the water swirled around them, her last vestiges of fear were washed away. And though he never used the words, she knew that he loved her.

Then the miniature killer came back into their lives, and they were able to deal with the stress, until it became truly personal. Trapped in a flash flood, her defenses were washed away, and the throbbing in her arm as she wandered across the baking desert sand brought back painful memories of past ghosts.

The feel of his hand in hers and the love in his gaze when she came back to life were enough to calm the storm for a while, but her growing distance from her old team and each new case brought her swirling closer and closer to the abyss.

Then the memories stirred by a domestic abuse case and the reappearance of an old adversary sent her spiraling downward, and she realized that in her drive to find the proof against a young killer she was becoming as callous and uncaring as her parents. Though he tried to free her with his constant love and support, this time it was not enough to pull her back from the brink.

She remembered her swimming teacher had once said, many years ago, that if you were caught in the undertow, it was safest not to fight it, but to save your strength for the journey back. By swimming at a slight angle with the current, you would free yourself more quickly than if you struggled in vain against the tide. And this time, when confronted by the horror of her decisions, she realized that she needed to work through her past until she could come to terms with the events that had shaped her, rather than struggling to submerge them as she had done before.

She left Las Vegas, and she left Grissom, to bring herself into harmony with her past, realizing that she might be abandoning her future.

She returned to California to spend time with her mother and to confront her demons. After each visit with her mother, she traveled down to an isolated rocky shore to sit and listen to the surf crashing against the rocks, to smell the fresh breeze from the sea, and to recover a bit of her lost connection to the ocean.

She planned to use these trips to reflect on the events of each day, to remember the journey that had led her to this place. However, on her first trip to the shore, she found herself remembering, not her youth, but a nearby beach and a young seminar speaker who sat with her on the rocks imagining life as a small tidal organism, and she ached for him, the salt of her tears mingling with the salty spray in the air.

She called him from her hotel that night. In his forgiveness she knew she could complete her journey through the past, because this time he would be there with her.

* * *

**TBC**


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

_They pass through whirlpools,__  
and deep woes do shun,__  
who the event weigh,  
ere the action's done._

- John Webster

* * *

The low rumble of the garage door, a syncopated rhythm beneath the bubbling of the bath, broke through her reflections, declaring that Grissom had finally arrived home, and she smiled gently in anticipation. She turned off the jets so she could follow his progress through the house; a second low rumble as the garage door closed, the sharp crack of a car door, Hank's single welcoming woof, the gentler click of the house door, rustling footsteps, and the slight clinking of glass.

A sudden draft across her face awakened her skin and brought a slight whiff of lemons and smoke, announcing his presence, and she smiled softly, though she did not open her eyes. Glass clinked again as he set his wine beside the tub, then reached over her to refill hers, the tangy smoky scent strong again over the mingling vanilla and lavender, and then fading as he moved away.

She expected to hear the rustling of his clothes and to feel him sliding into the water beside her, but there was nothing but the accelerating notes of wind-driven snow coming from the speakers and the occasional slosh of water against the tub. There was no movement beyond the shifting reds of candlelight dancing across her vision. She peeked through her lashes to see him standing motionless, focused on the flickering flames reflecting in the mirror, a slight smile warming his features. And she allowed her eyes to drift shut again, granting him the space of his thoughts.

Her mind drifted back through her own memories which had emerged from the depths of her conscious as she floated, and she savored them as she sipped her wine. Later, or perhaps tomorrow, she would tell him of her past connection with the water. Perhaps they could rediscover her lost joy together.

She lost herself in thoughts of vacations by the shore, discovering hidden worlds in tidal pools and salty marshes; of stolen afternoons in protected corners of Lake Mead, away from the loud roaring of motorized craft; and of hiking by a mountain stream, stopping to enjoy a picnic on a moss covered rock.

Perhaps they would simply share more moments like these, a relaxing bath to soak away their aches, a stroll through a desert shower, or the experience of a mountain cabin during a summer thunderstorm. Maybe they could create their own aquarium, where she could feel the freedom of the fish without the constant interruptions of a casino.

Or, best of all, they could experience all of these. And she determined to find out his passions, and his lost loves, so that they could build this new home with a stronger foundation, able together to weather storms from the past.

Her reverie ended as a longer pause in the music signaled the end of the CD before it returned to the beginning again. As Winter turned back to Spring, she finally heard the quiet rustle of clothing dropping to the floor, then felt the air stir around her before the water was slowly displaced as he joined her in the bath. She opened her eyes to smile warmly into his before reaching over to restart the jets, then she settled back against the towel and allowed her limbs to float freely on the currents.

As she felt his hand wrap around hers, the water swirling around them and enveloping them in warmth, Sara realized that she was already learning to love the water again.

* * *

**END**

* * *

**Author's Note:** As I said earlier, there will be a Grissom POV companion piece to this coming soon! It's currently in my editing room and I'm hoping to get it beta'd before posting. When I do post, I will also insert the link here.

**Author's Note #2:** This was my first time writing anything in this style that lasted longer than a drabble or ficlet. Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome and extremely useful. (Feel free to PM or email me through my profile if you would prefer.)


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